This has been an extraordinary month for me in terms of wildlife observations. Most have taken place in the same small area of the Albères, which seems to be inhabited by a rich variety of creatures. This must be because habitats range from scrub, vineyards and a cherry orchard on the north side of the track, to cork oak woods with a stream and rock pool on the south side. I'm sure just as much has been happening around me in previous years - I've simply been looking harder this time. And I put that down to having a new camera, which, crucially, has a viewfinder.

The photos and video clips I've shot, whilst not high quality, have provided far more detail than I could pick up with the naked eye or would have remembered from fleeting glimpses through binoculars. Since that first sighting of the lesser spotted woodpeckers (blog, 13th May), I've taken the camera (in preference to binoculars) on each morning walk. If I hadn't, I might never have confirmed the identity of those little woodpeckers or the fire salamander larvae.

Then there were two different warblers I kept hearing but couldn't identify from their songs. On successive mornings the one bird chattered and warbled its heart out, hidden from view behind leaves, while the other skulked low in shady bushes. They were less than fifty feet from each other. From sound recordings, I pinned the songs down and, some days after that, finally caught sight of the birds. The yellow Melodious Warbler was superbly camouflaged and never budged from his position. I have seen him only once. The skulking Subalpine, on the other hand, turned very obliging, suddenly taking to singing in full view from a pine tree. Neither was very close for good shots - but close enough to help identification.

More familiar to me - and less reclusive - is the treecreeper. It's one of my favourite woodland birds, but I recently discovered that they are rare in this region. Instead, we have short-toed treecreepers. Unless I saw the two species side by side, I doubt I'd be able to tell the difference. Both are quick movers, darting up this tree, flying to that one, busily working their way up and up, poking at the bark for insects and grubs. But serendipity struck again when I photographed one that flew onto the stump of a dead cork and stayed still, wings spread, for a good minute. Behaviour I've never witnessed before, whose purpose mystified me. Because the bird was in full sun, it surely can't have been cooling off. Perhaps I was close to its nest and it was pretending to be injured, to lure me away. But birds that play wounded usually flap about as if they have a broken wing and can't fly. This one neither moved nor called an alarm. For now the mystery remains - but I'm grateful to be able to look at the wonderful patterning on its wings, as often as I want.

Here's a more classic pose.

One of the most exciting sightings came mid-month at about 9.30am. My dog and I were walking down the edge of an abandoned vineyard, which is gradually being reclaimed by the forest. Scrub to our right, and the start of a copse to our left. A rustling sound in dead leaves at ground level on our left made us both pause. Neither of us could see anything through the mass of brambles and oak suckers. My first thought was Blackbird. But my dog doesn't usually pay any attention to those. He knows their smell. He was "pointing", visibly interested and trying to identify the scent. Whatever it was seemed to move away. A few feet ahead, there was a way through, into the copse, so I decided we would take a look, even though I expected any animal to have disappeared by the time we showed up. My dog was extremely helpful, nose to ground, and dragged me to a tree. By now I was thinking red squirrel or domestic cat. I peered up, into all the trees immediately around us. And there was something. Quite high. Peering down at us. It was either a pine or beech marten.

Photos confirm it's a beech marten. (Necks and chests of pine martens are more apricot coloured)

He seemed as curious about us as I was about him. My dog couldn't see him, lost interest and waited patiently while I took photos. I was astonished when, after a few minutes, the marten turned around (revealing quite clearly that he was indeed a male!), disappeared behind the main trunk and slowly, ever so quietly, began to descend. I watched his shadow on the leaves as he came down. Finally he reappeared on a lower branch. But now my dog spotted him, barked, dragged on the lead, desperate to give chase, and that was the end of photo opportunities.

I don't often see mammals here, so this was a real treat - especially as beech martens are more often creatures of the night or dusk. Robin, who is familiar with their pine marten cousins in Scotland, told me that it probably has young at the moment; those extra, hungry mouths might necessitate more activity during daytime.

Certainly a lot seem to be about generally; I'm noticing their distinctive droppings everywhere - including outside our front gate. At the moment they appear to be gorging on cherries - wild ones as well as those in our gardens and orchards, I expect.

With only a few days of the month left, and birdsong already beginning to diminish, the chances of seeing anything different on my regular walk were low, I thought. But I was forgetting about reptiles. May is Snake Month of course. I sometimes hear a prolonged rustle in the verge as something slithers away. They usually move far too fast to spot. So it was a delight, a couple of days ago, to come across a ladder snake in the middle of the lane. Also something of a surprise at 7.45 in the morning, when the temperature was relatively cool. The snake was lying completely still, but didn't look injured. I wondered if, having sensed our approach, it was playing dead. The road was shaded just there too, so the snake, if chilly, might be sluggish?

Although there is little traffic on that lane, there was still a risk it would be run over by a vehicle or bike if it stayed there. Most snakes I see are dead ones. Another walker passed, had a look, gave it a helpful poke with her stick, and decided it was dead or ill. I wasn't nearly so sure and, once she left us, I noticed slight movement. After capturing the snake on film, I gently touched the tip of its tail with a twig. No response. With the twig, I lifted its tail a little. Nothing. Was I going to have to pick it up? Not knowing if ladder snakes are the kind that squirt noxious liquid from their anal glands, I decided against that. Gradually, I teased it into movement, and it slowly slid away off the road and down the bank.

Bruce subsequently told me ladder snakes, though not venomous, do bite if handled. I'm so glad I made the right decision.

The 'rungs' of the ladder are more prominent in younger snakes - markings fade considerably with age.

It looks longer than it was - which must have been about a foot and a half. (Beech marten droppings by its head - note a couple of cherry stones!)

Here it is, on the move, scenting the air (to the accompaniment of several birds, including that melodious warbler, whose tree is nearby).

Sometimes it can be a bind, juggling camera and dog lead, but each day the effort has paid off, leaving me with a fine collection of memories - of insects, birds, mammals, amphibians and reptiles. A wild month indeed.

A month after suspecting a nuthatch was visiting a nest hole, (my blog of 30th April) I returned to see if anything was happening there.

The bracken had grown up considerably since my first visit, acting as an umbrella over my dog as we navigated the narrow track. Brambles and gorse also made progress slower this time. It seemed much quieter generally than last time. With the breeding season well underway now - territories established and mates chosen - there is less for birds to sing about and more work to be done feeding young.

On reaching the glade, I was again careful to keep well back from the tree, and settled myself into a semi comfortable position, still and quiet. With the camera on maximum zoom, I immediately saw an adult outside the hole, with a beak full of grubs. After it flew off again, I was stunned to witness this:

For the few minutes I was there, I think at least four juveniles either left the nest or, like the last one in this clip, thought better of it.

A few years ago I was lucky enough to notice a couple of juvenile great spotted woodpeckers looking out of their nest the day before they fledged. To arrive, once again, at the very moment these nuthatches were fledging, struck me as highly unlikely. There's serendipity and serendipity. Most birds don't return to the nest after fledging, but I wondered if nuthatches might be different. Had they used it as a roost the previous night, and simply been having a lie-in? Internet research hasn't definitively answered that. It's possible. However, they still seemed a little unsteady on their legs and wings.

Today, in the same general area, but on the main piste, I watched two adults (presumably) investigate a couple of old woodpecker holes. If our village council hadn't strimmed a fire-break last year, I would probably never have seen them:

My book says nuthatches breed between April and July, so it's possible these two are late setting up home compared with the other family. Both holes in this tree seem way too big for them, but apparently they're good at conversion projects, and pack mud around the entrance until it's a perfect fit. This site also seems rather close to the track for their comfort - "location, location, location", applies as much to birds as humans - but I shall continue to look out for them whenever I pass by.

Following my blog earlier this month about Fire salamander larvae, I returned on the 23rd, wondering if I could spot any different salamander or newt species.

After waiting for some time, I only saw two larvae that had legs, both of which were the Fire species. But while scanning the pool bed, something else caught my eye: a moving twig construction vaguely reminiscent of hermit crabs, but more closely resembling the bagworm moth caterpillars I blogged about in October 2016.

It was of course a caddisfly larva. I understand this is a sign that the water is unpolluted - something I'd expect here, to be honest.

Now that my attention was drawn to an area of the pool only just getting warmed by the sun, I spotted a frog tadpole snacking, which made me turn the camera to record again. I simply can't resist filming these - there's something about their roundness that makes me laugh.

It was only on playing the clip back that I noticed another caddisfly larva, below right, heaving its log-like house all over the place - and there appears to be at least one more moving around in dead leaves, above left! The naked eye simply misses all of this activity.

I was disappointed not to see more salamander larvae - and no evidence of any adult frogs. But that might partly have been on account of my dog paddling to cool off while he waited for me. And I can't really blame him.

David meets Goliath

By and large, insects were proving more interesting and entertaining that day. Like the backswimmer in the following clip. It starts off right-side up - roughly in the centre of the picture and stationary for a while, before suddenly flipping over and swimming away. Extraordinary camouflage!

A few days later, the salamander larvae were more active - or more visible to me at any rate. I was hoping to film one "sinking" vertically after surfacing. I didn't catch that, but towards the end of the next clip, one does demonstrate how they are prone to "let go" and sink - albeit horizontally in this instance. Could it be that the behaviour develops as their tails become less fish-like and therefore less effective for swimming?

Finally, at the risk of video overload, here are three toad tadpoles feeding - but as they continue to drift with the floating leaf, note the argy-bargy going on to the right. Are toad and frog tadpoles scrapping over plant matter or is a more violent attack in progress?

Between Sorède and Laroque, 190m up in the Albères, above a small weir, there's a rock pool that's worth checking out at this time of year. Fed by runoff from the slopes of Pic Néoulous it can by turn be a raging torrent after heavy rain and bone dry at the height of summer.

We've had a relatively wet spring but now the temperature is rising (29 degrees forecast for later this week!), the stream will dry up, the pool will rapidly stagnate and finally evaporate, which could spell disaster for some of the creatures in it.

I've seen tadpoles and tiny froglets there in previous years. What might 2017 bring? A few days ago I found out.

Late March

May

At the top of the path running up beside the weir, a red admiral butterfly settled for a few seconds on lush, damp grass near the water's edge. Wild mint was also growing here, giving off a delicious scent as I brushed past. After a few more steps, four or five frogs that must have been sunbathing on the nearest "shore", leapt and plopped in synchronised fashion, into the water. By the time I got to where they'd been sitting, they had completely disappeared, having buried themselves in the mud at the bottom, I expect.

It was some minutes later when movement by rocks to my right turned out to be a big frog with an impressive fluorescent yellow stripe running from the tip of his nose to his bottom.

Either Perez frog (Pelophylax perezei) - considered one of several "green frog" species, but colouring varies greatly, or Graf hybrid (Phelophylax kl. Grafi) - a hybridisation of Perez and Marsh frog.

It was good to see and hear water trickling down the rocks above, which meant the pool was still quite deep at the far end nearest the waterfall and just full enough to run over the edge of the weir. This aeration and gentle circulation meant it was crystal clear.

And teeming with tadpoles.

Those in the shallowest, sunniest patches of water were the liveliest, while others in the cooler, shaded areas appeared sluggish or asleep.

A few leaves, faded oak flowers and a dead bumblebee slowly drifted across the surface towards the weir, past dancing pond skaters, and above what I assumed were water boatmen - until a photo revealed that at least one was swimming upside down. I have since double-checked - it's a "backswimmer" not a boatman! I had never heard of them before.

Backswimmer (with tadpole)

I think this fast-swimming (out of focus!) giant beetle is a "Peardrop" (Cybister lateralmarginalis)

Mesmerised by the tadpoles - some of which seemed unusually huge - I must have stood there, fairly still, for about fifteen minutes. I don't know if staring through the water for that length of time helped me "get my eye in" or if it allowed other pond dwellers to get used to my presence and reveal themselves, but it was around then that I spotted a tiny fish. Then another. They were in a deeper section, further away, so it was impossible to see them well. The presence of any fish surprised me but I almost dismissed a niggle of doubt until I realised there was one much closer. And now I could see it had four legs. Not a fish at all.

Was this my first sighting of a newt?

The longer I looked the more of them I saw. When stationary, they look like just another piece of debris, but they can move fast when they want to, using legs and their fish-like tail to half-crawl, half-swim.

Knowing nothing about newts - and little about any amphibians - I had no idea what species they might be, but hoped that photos and a short video would help me find out. When I subsequently compared those with illustrations in the Flore et Faune des Pyrénées Méditerranéennes book, my question was quickly answered. (This proves that even poor photos can reveal details missed with the naked eye, and provide an invaluable aid to identification. Thanks to these pictures, I've also been able to get the ID verified by experts on a website dedicated to recording local wildlife sightings: faune-lr.)

They are fire salamander larvae (Salmandra salamandra) - at different stages of metamorphosis. What best distinguishes these from larvae of other species of salamander/newt are the pale dots where their legs join their bodies.

To begin with I assumed the "unusually huge tadpoles" - like the one in the clip - were younger larvae less advanced in their development. Subsequent research suggests they are in fact frog tadpoles. The black tadpoles will grow into toads.

From time to time one or two salamander larvae would swim to the surface, hang there vertically for a second, before letting themselves sink back to the bottom - still in a vertical position. I have no idea what they were doing. Getting air? At the larval stage they have gill structures to help them breathe underwater. Perhaps the surfacing ones had metamorphosed to the point where they'd lost their gills?

It's easy to see how the adults get their name. The one in the photo below had been run over and killed, sadly. This always strikes me as so unlucky because there isn't much traffic on the tracks in the hills, especially at night, when these salamander are more likely to be on the move.

My pool discoveries reminded me that a couple of weeks earlier, some friends and I nearly trod on a young fire salamander (tiny and totally black) in the middle of this same track. Unmoving, imitating a twig, it looked dead. Just in case it wasn't, I gently picked it up and set it down in the grass, off the track, whereupon it very slowly walked away. Let's hope it survives to adulthood.

This spring I feel I've seen fire salamanders in almost every stage of their development. I would love, one day, to see a live adult, but in the meantime shall have to return to the rock pool to monitor the youngsters' progress. Fingers crossed the water won't dry up before they can survive on land.

I don't consider myself a twitcher because I don't usually race off to far flung corners whenever a rare bird is sighted. Perhaps because of this there remain a lot of species I have yet to see. The Lesser Spotted Woodpecker is one, and, though not even classed as rare, it has long been on my wish list. Wishful thinking can be dangerous, however, when observing birds. My father once convinced himself that a nightingale had taken up residence in a field near our house in Northumberland. This despite the fact that nightingales were, literally, unheard of so far north, and the incessant "song" we were hearing at night didn't seem to match the description in the bird book (I was a teenager, and resources like the internet and Youtube recordings didn't exist in those days). After calling out the local RSPB guy, Dad was mortified to discover it was an insomniac sedge warbler.

This memory resurfaced yesterday when, on a regular walk, a bird caught my attention as it landed in a dead cork oak not far away, just beside the lane. As is so often Sod's Law, I had left the binoculars at home. And am still trying to get used to my new varifocal specs. In profile against the trunk (and against the light), the bird was definitely a woodpecker. My immediate thought was Wryneck because I was close, it was small and surely much too small for a Great Spotted. It looked pale, drab, and after pecking at the bark for a few seconds, it flew away. To my surprise another immediately alighted in exactly the same spot, and pecked briefly at the same bit of tree before flying off as well. This time I thought I caught a flash of black and white spots as it flew. Or did I? From the direction they flew in, I then heard a woodpecker call. Not a Wryneck, but vaguely similar: quick-fire, strident tchik-tchik-tchik-tchik-tchik... Had I just seen my first ever Lesser Spotted Woodpeckers? Or was I deluding myself?

I concluded that whatever species, this was a pair, which meant they were probably nesting somewhere nearby. Which, in turn, meant there was a high chance of seeing them again in the same area.

Back home, the distribution map in my RSPB bird book showed that, apart from a few isolated patches in Spain, the Pyrenees are on the south western edge of the Lesser Spotteds' range; this species is resident all year round. The wingspan is the same as the summer visiting wryneck but its body is about 1cm shorter, making it the smallest of our woodpeckers. Other than size, the most distinctive difference between Lesser and Great Spotted (and the difference easiest to spot) is that Lesser don't have bold white shoulder patches. Their backs are black, with broad white bars. According to the book, they excavate 3cm holes and prefer trees like limes and elms with very upright twigs. This made me doubt my sighting, until I remembered that immediately opposite the cork tree where I'd seen the birds, there were a few poplars. A Youtube recording of their call sounded very like the bird I heard. In fact, I realised, I've heard it several times before but wrongly assumed it to be the Great Spotted.

Today I returned - suitably equipped this time - excited but determined to make the correct ID. The tree they were in yesterday was on the off-piste track I investigated and blogged about in April. So, with the intention of gaining height and putting the sun behind me, I headed up it. From there I would have a fine view of the tops of those poplars.

Only a few metres in, I heard a single tchik, which I usually associate with Great Spotted woodies. I stopped. The bird sounded low down, not far in front of me, but I couldn't see any movement in the trees or on the ground. As the call continued and sped up, I recorded it on my phone. Sure enough, it matched the internet recording. This was promising but I really wanted to see one too.

Click on the 'still video' below to hear the call, which builds up at the end.

I was only a few feet from the dead tree, and only now thought to look up at this south face of the trunk. Not far above a hollow stump where a branch had long ago broken off, I spied a small hole. Roughly 3cm in diameter. Roughly at the height I'd seen both birds from the lane yesterday. Perhaps they hadn't been pecking at the bark at all.

Hardly daring to believe my luck, and not wishing to disturb them if this was their nest, I quickly moved on, further up the track than I'd originally planned. After putting a good distance and plenty of cover between myself and the tree, I found an ideal spot from where, albeit on my knees, I could quietly watch the hole through binos.

Within a minute there was activity outside the hole. No white shoulder patches on the bird clinging to the trunk. Instead, black and white bars as described in the book. YES!

Every minute or so, one or other parent flew to the hole, popped their head in and - presumably - fed chicks.

It can often be hard to judge a bird's size if there's nothing close by to compare it with, but I was able to appreciate just how small these woodpeckers are when a starling harassed them briefly. Dark and intimidating (6cm bigger), the starling might, in fact, have been trying to inspect the cavity left by the broken branch as a potential nest site for itself, but wasn't averse to causing mischief at the same time. The woodpeckers weren't having any of it, however, and saw it off.

In the end my knees complained about the stony ground (I should have taken my camping stool!), so I creaked back onto my feet and carried along the track to see what else might be about. Not much today. I heard a wryneck, and a cuckoo in the distance; saw the same group of long-tailed tits as last time, and a huge boar print in the wallow. A lot of fresh pine marten droppings too.

Nearly an hour later I headed back, hoping that by then the woodpeckers wouldn't be too upset when I walked past their tree again. On the way I managed to get a quick, rather poor shot of one of them. Rather grubby looking, I suspect this is the female but can't tell for sure because the top of its head isn't visible (males have red caps). Now I see there's something in its beak - an insect about to be taken to the nest, or a faecal sac taken away?

These delightful little birds need to be left in peace to rear their young, so I'll keep well away from their tree from now on. With luck, though, I'll catch more glimpses of them from the road on my regular walks. Now I know their call, I expect I'll start hearing them everywhere! It's good to know that sometimes you do get exactly what you wish for.

Great spotted woodpecker - only a few dozen metres away

Update 21st May: Eight days on, this morning I was worried. Yesterday there was no sign or sound of the woodpeckers when I walked along the lane, and this morning I was alarmed to see, instead, a starling inspecting the spot where I knew the hole to be (just out of sight from my position on the road). Had the young fledged or been predated?

Back home, I've been researching. From the RSPB and BTO websites, I've gleaned that starlings do sometimes predate eggs and chicks from nests. A bigger threat to lesser spotted woodpeckers, however, seems to be their great spotted cousins! That was an unwelcome surprise, especially as I saw one of these very close by only the other day - but then, they seem to be everywhere in the woods here.

Given that the nest site of 'my' pair of lesser spotted is right in the open, with no leafy camouflage, that must increase the risk of predation.

My heart sinks at these discoveries, but further research into woodpecker chick development and their parents' behaviour makes me a little more hopeful. According to the BTO, in the third and final week before fledging, the juveniles are fed at the nest hole by both parents, but the adults rarely go inside. I never saw either parent go inside. It's eight days since I first saw them; two since I last saw them. And if the youngsters were that close to fledging, perhaps they would be too big for starlings to take (even if interested).

Although I may never learn the fate of this family, I'll be keeping my eyes open for young birds in that area.

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